


Broken at Dawn

by deklava



Series: The Man Who Beat Sherlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, BDSM, Bondage, Comeplay, M/M, Prostate Massage, Riding Crop, Sex Toys, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:03:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>God, he wants to throw off his robe, give himself permission to get erect, and plunge his slick length onto the perfect body on his bed. He knows that Sherlock would be willing. But Ian is truly afraid of what could happen afterward. He’s not a big fan of uncertainty: that’s partly why he does this job. It allows him to maintain control over his interactions. He can’t afford to let infatuation make him anyone’s slave, even if that ‘anyone’ loves being bound, whipped, and fingered to orgasm at his hands.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken at Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> **beta:** chasingriver

Ian Adler doesn’t need to turn over or even open his eyes to know that Sherlock Holmes is in the bed with him. He can _feel_ the other man’s presence, which crackles with tension and nervous energy.

He rolls slowly onto his back. Sherlock’s breath catches for a second before resuming its staccato pace.

“Is it the boredom again?” Ian whispers.

Sherlock’s response betrays his desperation and need. “It’s _everything_.”

The Man sits up.

“Fortunately for you, I have a cure for that,” he says as he reaches under the bed for the straightjacket.

******

The first time Sherlock visited him in the dark, Ian had been startled, but not really surprised. He knew from his Met contacts that the celebrated detective had not been given a challenging case in over a week, and for men like Sherlock Holmes, boredom was toxic.

Remembering their first (and last) encounter, Ian had expected him to show up eventually, but not at three o’clock in the morning. Sherlock had dismantled the lock on a downstairs window, bypassed the alarm, and slipped into the Man’s large bedroom, neither knowing nor caring what time it was. When Ian woke up, he’d taken one look at Sherlock’s ashen face and trembling hands, and said, “I know what you need.”

He did, and proved it.

That morning, the rising sun’s rays had highlighted a bound and gagged Sherlock lying spread-eagled on the mattress, milky skin covered with crop welts and patches of his own drying semen. His sobs of relief and ecstasy acted as background music while Ian wanked in front of his bathroom mirror and wondered how much longer it would be before Sherlock consumed him completely.

******

Sherlock is so agitated tonight that Ian gives him something to fight against. He buckles the shaking detective into a black latex straightjacket and secures his ankles with leather cuffs. When Sherlock struggles in his bindings and starts groaning, Ian seals his lips with a rubber gag and blindfolds him, shutting the world out completely.

Muffled, Sherlock’s noises are even more erotic. Listening to them, Ian wills his stirring penis to remain dormant, and after a tug of war between his will and his libido, it does. Mastering lords and ladies is easy: controlling oneself is the real challenge in situations like this.

Once Sherlock’s agitated squirming subsides, Ian picks up the riding crop and runs it along the detective’s finely planed cheekbone. The Man’s rippled grey dressing gown falls open, but there is no witness to his nudity.

“Any recent injuries I should know about?” He is whispering, but in the stillness of the night, his voice carries like soft thunder. “Nod yes or no.”

Sherlock shakes his head and makes a noise that sounds like “Please, Sir.”

“On your front. Arse up, chest down.”

The detective obeys. He has to struggle with his balance a bit, but he finally succeeds.

Ian sets the crop on the bed and reaches around Sherlock to unbuckle the latter’s belt. Then he tugs the young man’s trousers and pants down to mid-thigh. He feels Sherlock’s erection, wet and hard, spring free and brush against his wrist.

“You interrupted my sleep. Again. Since you’re currently unable to apologize, I’ll have to take satisfaction via a harsher method.”

He raises the crop and brings it down on one marble-smooth arse cheek. The sound of punished flesh is startlingly loud in the otherwise silent house. Sherlock screams into the rubber bit and jumps in place, but he does not attempt to wriggle away. He knows it would be futile anyway.

More blows follow, until Sherlock’s creamy buttocks are striped with red welts that will soon turn into dark, lovely bruises. During a pause in the punishment, Ian reaches between the detective’s legs to make sure that the other man is still hard and enjoying this.

Sherlock is. Both hard and _clearly_ enjoying this, if the growing wet patch on the duvet is any indicator.

Ian releases him and runs his fingers lightly along Sherlock’s crack, lingering briefly over the detective’s hole. It’s dry and impossibly tight, but Ian has never backed down from a challenge.

“I presume you’re still a virgin? Kept yourself away from predators since we last played?”

Sherlock nods. Ian swallows twice before leaning over, grasping the other man’s silky curls, and yanking his chin off the mattress.

“For a virgin, you’re a shameless slut, my boy.”

His teeth close over Sherlock’s ear, making the bound detective shudder and whimper.

“I won’t fuck you, but I’ll fuck _with_ you.”

God he wants to throw off his robe, give himself permission to get erect, and plunge his slick length onto the perfect body on his bed. He knows that Sherlock would be willing. But Ian is truly afraid of what could happen afterward. He’s not a big fan of uncertainty: that’s partly why he does this job. It allows him to maintain control over his interactions. He can’t afford to let infatuation make him anyone’s slave, even if that ‘anyone’ loves being bound, whipped, and fingered to orgasm at his hands.

Fortunately for his own sanity, the Man is good at improvising.

“On your back,” he orders with a smack of the crop for emphasis. He licks his lips as Sherlock struggles into position, emitting the odd whine as cropped skin brushes painfully against the duvet.

“Knees to chest.”

Sherlock obeys, huffing air through his nose. Ian undoes the ankle cuffs and throws them aside before removing the young man’s trousers and pants completely and stacking two pillows under the latter’s hips. Remembering what happened when he was in a similar position last time, Sherlock trembles and his sounds become more urgent: as if the rock-hard cock leaking fluid all over his stomach didn’t signal his desperation enough. The moonlight falls across his captive form, making his skin glow and the latex straightjacket turn an ominous shade of blue-black.

“Good,” Ian says crisply although the real word in this case is _exquisite._ “Feet down, and keep your legs spread.”

Sherlock is remarkably obedient, which is a stark contrast to what Ian’s contact at the Met keeps saying. The kindest phrase the man’s ever used to describe the consulting detective is “Bloody arrogant sod”. More proof that holding the key to someone’s pleasure gives you unlimited power over them.

Ian opens the bedside table drawer and takes out a vibrating prostate massager that arrived via personal messenger today. He was going to use it on himself for stress relief, but taking Sherlock apart with it now promised to be a much sweeter distraction.

When he turns it on, Sherlock gives a full-body jolt and gasps. Both are typically fear responses, but Ian knows that the detective is far from afraid.

“Such an eager young man,” he croons as he runs the buzzing edge along Sherlock’s cheek. “Where would you like me to put this? Show me.”

The detective pushes his hips forward and lets both knees collapse to the side, splaying his long legs even wider and putting his clenched hole on full and wanton display. He’s too needy to feel self-conscious.

“Oh. I see. Same as always. So deliciously predictable.”

The click of the lube bottle being opened sends a massive spike in both their heart rates. When the Man presses the toy’s slicked-up tip to Sherlock’s perineum and draws circles on the hyper-sensitive skin, the younger man does an excellent impression of death by strangulation. He gurgles, bites the gag so hard that his jaw muscles shake, and beats his head repeatedly against the mattress. Ian sees that he’s keeping his hips still only via herculean effort.

“Have you been wicked, Sherlock?” Ian holds the lube bottle aloft, drizzling its slippery contents across his plaything’s puckered entrance. “Hmmm? Tell me.”

He nearly laughs aloud when the detective nods so rapidly that drool splashes everywhere. Those full lips look so lovely stretched around the rubber bit. Sherlock would be gorgeous as a male bondage model, but Ian has no intention of sharing him with anyone else in the business.

He pushes the massager halfway in, and Sherlock’s greedy hole does the rest: the younger man’s buttocks clench at the intrusion and the device disappears into his body until only the flared base remains visible. The vibration against his prostate causes him to arch his back and grind his arse onto the duvet: all movements that drive the toy’s rounded tip back and forth across that precious cluster of nerves.

The sight of that brilliant man being reduced to a panting, sobbing slut is so filthy and erotic that Ian bends his own rules- slightly. He sheds his robe, springs onto the bed, and straddles Sherlock’s waist. The blindfold and straightjacket will keep the detective from seeing or feeling the Man’s naked flesh, which is why Ian gives himself permission to massage his cock back to full erection. When he can actually _feel_ the toy’s vibrations coursing through Sherlock’s body and making his own erogenous zone hum, he bites his lip and begins to wank furiously.

He thought he had seen and done it all. Until now. Playing with this cerebral virgin has challenged his control and made him question his previously iron-clad boundaries. He knows he’s been changed, but has yet to determine the extent of the ‘damage’.

The mattress springs creak loudly as Ian Adler and Sherlock Holmes, both men with a reputation for being driven and having no heart, push and grunt against each other. Finally Sherlock goes rigid just before shooting load after load of hot semen onto himself. Ian throws his head back and lets Sherlock’s muffled screams conceal his own ecstatic noises as he comes all over the bucking figure beneath him. It’s one of the most intense orgasms he’s ever had: some of his release reaches the headboard. A _lot_ of it ends up on Sherlock’s face.

Once his cock stops pulsating, Ian braces his hands on the bed to stay upright and waits for his heart rate to return to normal. His eyes fall to the black latex covering Sherlock’s heaving chest, and widen at the sight of large pools of congealing sperm spread across the glossy surface. A horribly dirty- and utterly delicious – idea pops into his head.

After crawling off of Sherlock and gently extracting the prostate massager, he reaches up and unbuckles the gag. Sherlock licks his lips and rotates his jaw before whispering, “Thank you, Sir.”

Ian strokes his flushed cheek with the back of one hand. “Such a good boy. I don’t often do this, but you’ve done so well that I’m giving you another reward.”

That gets Sherlock’s attention fast. The detective raises his head off the pillow and looks alert, even with the blindfold on.

“Open your mouth.”

Sherlock does.

Ian swirls his forefinger through their comingled releases. Then he places it on Sherlock’s tongue. The younger man looks surprised, like an infant presented with a strange new food. But when he finally swallows, he moans.

“See how delicious you taste?”

Sherlock’s response goes right to Ian’s gut. “Yes… and it’s not just me, is it?”

******

The next few hours are a repeat of Sherlock’s last nocturnal visit.

After removing the detective’s straightjacket and blindfold, Ian rings for his personal manservant, who brings bottled water and wipes them down with warm flannels so that they can sleep comfortably until sunrise. When a house sub brings a heavily-laden breakfast tray, Sherlock only accepts a cup of tea, saying that he “already ate.”

Ian nearly chokes on his toast at that.

It’s when Sherlock is at the door, preparing to depart, that things veer from their usual course. When the detective’s gloved hand touches the knob, Ian seizes him by the wrist and shirt collar and forces him against the wall. Sherlock squeaks in surprise, but his pupils dilate instantly.

“Did you enjoy yourself last night, Sherlock?”

 “Y-yes, of course. Wasn’t it obvious?”

“Extremely. And so did I.”

“I know. I believe I sampled the results.”

Inflamed by those words, Ian works his thigh between Sherlock’s legs, keeping him pinned in all the right places. “I’m sure you’ll be back soon, and I’ll be more than pleased to see you. But in many respects you’re too innocent for this vicious world we live in. I now feel obliged to do something about that.” He pauses and continues in a tone that’s practically a growl. “You’ve visited me four times this month, and each time I’ve taken care of you. Next time you show up, I’m going to just _take_ you.”

This is it. Ian is going for broke, lest this arrangement finally break him. They stare at each other in the bright foyer, the warning cum promise hanging heavily between them.

Sherlock’s response crumbles Ian Adler’s last defenses.

“See you Saturday.”

 


End file.
